


fellas, is it gay to get stickbugged

by akgerhardt



Category: Homestuck
Genre: "come with me and you'll be in a world of fetish exploration", (i guess i should warn for creampie and mild cum inflation), Communication, Fairystuck, Fluff and Crack, Giant/Tiny, Language Barrier, M/M, Magic, Oral, Safe Sane and Consensual, Xeno, almost every fic outside of the sfw series is, aphrodisiac, but the only explicit chapter is ch. 6, dirk and roxy are trans and jake has no ass, do not take a shot for every soft dirk moment, hoo boy ok time for the weird sex chapter tags:, injuries, insertion, mental bond/psychic link, micro/macro, that hella talented writer who helped w my prose did part of jake's pov in ch. 1, unreliable narrators, unwarranted kink jokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28067121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akgerhardt/pseuds/akgerhardt
Summary: a thrilling spinoff of the bee movie, ft esoteric pixie bf
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 19
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**> Dirk: Wake. **

Fuck no, you aren't rejoining the land of the living if you can help it. You're not dabbling in the fine arts of therapy anytime soon, thanks. 

**> What's that smell?**

Your brow crinkles in your fight against consciousness, but your goddamn horse snoot wins out. 

_Snff. Snnnnff. Snrch… snnnff snff._

Shit on a stick, she made hazelnut coffee _and_ chocolate chip waffles. 

Ok. Fine. Just a quick lap around your "vacation" house. The bare minimum price to pay for premade delicacies.

You stagger out of bed, then stumble into the bathroom for your morning ritual, allowing the hot water and peppermint to rouse you to alertness. Steam seeps into the hall when you swing open the door with your foot like a less passionate Kuzco, robed in towels as you drip your way back. You take your sweet time drying and meticulously sculpting your hair with comb physics alone, only stopping once each tuft has been shaped in a satisfactory manner. 

Then, you remember that you still have to get dressed and grimace. After some contemplation, you freeboob under a zipper hoodie. Problem solved. Now it's time for some motherfuckin' beans and waffs. 

The house is chilly and the metal railing and tile floor colder, a welcome contrast to your scalded body. You sideeye the unblinking visages of dozens of compressed wizard stockphotos and lisa frank pieces alike as you pass their frames. You have mixed feelings about the decor as a whole, but the staircase is more dangerous than the balcony with that level of distraction. You should warn her that someone could fall ogling those beards and furries, but you don't want to hurt her feelings.

You survive the first flight and enjoy a congratulatory view out the futuristic, oversized window that serves as one of the walls. Snow is pretty, you think, even if it's shitty in every other way. You feel lucky that she invested in a generator, because NY is stuck in one of those late winters, and it sucks. Today's nothing short of a goddamn blizzard already, and the gnarled old trees look even more menacing than the wizards when the wind picks up. Half a dozen dead branches the girth of logs have already crashed into the house since your arrival, but her investment in cement and bulletproof glass seems to have paid off. 

Between the hellfires of Texas and... this, you're getting tired of climate change. And by tired, you mean terrified. 

Anyway. 

The wind is howling, the trees are swaying creepily as they loom, and you're too hungry to stand here despairing any longer. You pad down the steps to the kitchen and are flanked by a multitude of cats who request second breakfasts. You realize that Roxy is already telecommuting in the office room, and you have to shake off a pang of guilt over your extended shower. She'll be done in a couple hours. You can bullshit with her then. 

You help yourself to a couple waffles stacked together in your hands like a sandwich. You dunk another in your second cup of coffee for good measure and have to bite back an erotic noise, because hot _damn,_ can she make a mean breakfast. You may just adopt the "three meals a day" thing back home. For now, you're eatin' good in the woods, and you may as well be hibernating with the way you've started sleeping like a real human being. A food coma sounds nice right about now, you think as you stretch out in bliss, comfortably full and warm inside.

You're in sleep limbo, cushioned by a hella plush, egg-shaped chair, when something bonks against the window in front of you. Your eyes shoot open just in time to see what looks like a hummingbird bounce off the side of the house before plummeting down. You shake off your tiredness and struggle out of the comfy chair. There's a scuff where it hit, but you can't see the ground this close to the wall. You doubt it would make a difference, though- the snow is deep, and it was too damn tiny to make out sufficient details when it was right in front of you. 

…

You have to go outside, then. Fuck it. 

You try to commit the memory of warmth to your body as you fumble with the frozen door and shove it open against the wind. The _inside_ doorknob alone was cold enough to feel like freezerburn. You steel yourself, cursing and hopping through the snow like the sap you are and squinting against the stinging air and flakes until you find the scuff. Luckily, there's a pretty obvious hole in the snow where it dropped straight down. You reach in and grab the thing, giving little thought to its "not hummingbird" texture until you can get inside. You have to put it in your pocket when you reach the door, so you hope beyond hope that the wind won't steal it as you pull your sleeves over your hands and yank the handle open with all of your strength. You wedge your legs between it like a stopper to check your pocket, and then you make a run for it.

It slams behind you as soon as you dart in. For a couple moments, you just ride out the teeth chatters and fullbody shivers before you limp to the kitchen and run your hands under warm water until they're thawed enough to not be numb. 

Then, you delicately empty your pocket into your palm.

It's a surreal experience. The thing is emerald green and about the length of your index finger. It looks like an expensive, poseable figurine straight out of award-winning fantasy media. You can't tell what it is or even if it's alive. It's neither warm nor moving, but you doubt you should attempt cpr on an exoskeleton.

You just kinda stand there and stare as you contemplate in bewilderment, unintentionally breathing on it for fuck knows how long before one of its antennas wiggles a millimeter. Its limbs remain folded against its limp body, but the other antenna joins in the faint, sporadic movements. 

You decide to get huffing. You weaponize your hot hazelnut breath and are relieved when it proves to be effective. The coldness fades from your palm as you coat it in humidity like a mini sauna. The wiggles become deliberate as the creature rouses, and then he's conscious, unfurling his limbs in a weak, shaky fashion to try to turn over. You help with a gentle nudge, and that's when you notice that his wings are busted, outer shells cracked and iridescent membranes mangled. You wince in empathy. He just stays like that as he gets his bearings, so you breathe on him a little more, figuring it can't hurt. When he finally cranes his neck to look up at you, you lock eyes (you think- it's hard to tell with bug eyes). You freeze midhuff, gaping like a man about to attempt vore, and he unleashes a mouthless, ear-piercing shriek before jabbing you with two sharp elbows. You flip your shit and reflexively fling him onto one of the couches in the adjacent room. He goes silent, and then you start panicking. At a loss for what to do, you approach with caution. 

Either he warped out of this dimension, or he's hiding. Fucking great.

**> Look under the couch. Feel up those cushions.**

No. Not yet. You'll just eyeball the area in case he's sitting somewhere, four legs crisscrossed and top ones folded politely as he waits to talk this out... Ok, he's hiding. You can't say you blame him. 

"... Hey. Sorry for the yeet. You're safe here; I won't hurt you... Not to flex, but I kinda saved your life? So. If you could come out and let me patch you up… Uh. Please."

…

You sigh before giving warning that you're going to lift the cushions and pillows. You spot him darting out from under the blanket while you're rifling but make no move to catch him. He scales the side of the couch opposite you in haste and proceeds to fall on his back, limbs flailing while he does some funky maneuvers to flip upright. For a moment, you stare, and then you flop onto the couch with an even deeper sigh. The adrenaline's worn off; you're too tired and full to engage in an epic chase or try to wait this out. Maybe your therapist would be proud of you for not pursuing someone who doesn't want to be helped. (You don't intend to bring this up with them, though.) You offer a half-wave to the thing on the floor before resuming your nap. You try not to worry about all the things that could happen and fail miserably, but you fall asleep nonetheless. 

You awaken to a high-pitched squeak and find him the subject of several cats' attention. You yell at them while mentally berating Past Dirk and hurrying to shoo them away, grabbing him in the process. He squirms a bit in your hold but doesn't attack this time. You carry him back to the couch and ponder what to do next. Ultimately, you decide to just… let him go in the hopes of rectifying first impressions. You lay down again and set him carefully on your middle, folding your arms behind your head and closing your eyes. You struggle to appear casual and unaffected, heart racing as you picture him whipping out giant mandibles or some shit in defense against your perceived threat. You remain still, somehow, and it pays off when you feel the small weight settle. You hazard a glance and find him folded up like some kind of spiky plant, head nowhere in sight. He… seems to be resting while protecting himself? Maybe he's benefitting from your heat. 

You cave to the desire to just stare like a creepy mfer before succumbing to the void, courtesy of your waffle-induced stupor. Your last thought is the realization that Roxy tricked you into decaf yet again. This is betrayal of the highest caliber and warrant for a lawsuit. How are you supposed to be hopped up on neurotic energy now? More importantly, how in the hell can you be productive without caffeine? Dammit, Rox. Way to not let a dude destroy his mind and body in the name of accomplishments. It's almost like the whole reason you came here was to work on your health, and she's helping you do just that. Wack.

You wake again when you feel a ticklish sensation going up your torso and almost freak out before you realize he climbed under your hoodie. Presumably for additional heat and security. The spikes are gone, thank fuck. You lift your collar a bit to sneak a peep. He shifts with a quiet trill of protest at the blanket removal, now unfolded flat against you with his tiny peets latched on painlessly. Ok, that's kind of adorable. You leave him to his nap, cupping your hand around the space like a radiator in case you're ambushed by cat cuddles. 

"How in the shit can you sleep with that schnozzle snorin'? I can hear ya from the whole other friggin side of mi casa!" 

You jolt but keep your hand in place. He chirps in a questioning tone and starts wiggling around. You fight back laughter in order to keep an unaffected tone.

"... What else did you hear?" 

"Just bs interruptin' a serious science sesh, why?"

"Curious if the architecture affects acoustics... Sorry about that. Also, thanks for the sustenance. It fucked hardcore, even if you insist on breaking my chemical dependency." 

"D'awww! You're welcome, snookums~"

"I should probably-"

He chirps louder this time, getting rambunctious in an attempt to escape. You steady your cupped hand around him as you get up, feigning nonchalance.

"... deal with whoever's tweetin' me before they get rowdy."

"Gasp! Does Dork Strider is social medias? You keepin' secrets from yer bee-loved bffsie?"

"No, hell no. It's, uh. An experiment of the esoteric variety."

"Mm, I see," she nods gravely, stroking her chin. "Mayhaps it has somethin' to do with the lil birdie in yer tummy? Didja set it up with a teeny tiny computer an' everything just 'cause? Can I have its handle to better kinkshame thee?"

…

...

...

"Look, I found a... bug, and he's… exhibiting humanoid behaviors, but he's both injured and terrified, so I'm gonna need you to take my word for now because if I don't handle this alone, post-fucking-haste, there's a very real danger of him pinching my nips off." 

"... You're fuckin' weird, ya know that?"

"Well aware."

"But! Takes one to know one. Just gimme a holler if ya need help or whatev."

"Will do, thanks. You're remarkably unphased."

"Yeah, yeah... Just don't go shovin' it up your ass." 

…

"That thought will haunt me indefinitely." 

"Welc~ I gotta get back to werk, anyways. I'll be baaaaack…" 

"Good luck- not that you need it."

"You are the absolute SOFTEST of mfers deep down."

"Sounds fake, but ok."

"Believe it, binch!!!"

She fingerguns as she backs away, accompanied by a wink. You sit down and release him, unzipping your hoodie enough for him to easily climb out. His nervous energy wears off as he scuttles around you and the couch, finally settling in your hair. 

"No, yeah, by all means. Not like I put painstaking effort into styling that."

He chirps again, a relaxed, inquisitive tone. 

"You chose the best seat in the house... Bet it smells real nice, too."

...

"Gonna let me check out your wings anytime soon?" 

He trills lightly in response, rolling back and forth before stretching out. You wait a couple minutes and then reach up, slow and tentative like they do in horsegirl movies. You're met with a soft hiss and retract your hand. At least he seems content to chill on you as long as you don't try to touch him. 

"Alright. Guess we're doing this on your terms…"

You bring him to the kitchen and rifle around for something he might like. Doritos? What living being _doesn't_ like Doritos? Orange soda? You think it's similar enough to nectar. 

You swallow the remainder of your dignity and offer a chip to your poor hair. He ignores you and just burrows deeper when you persist. At least you won't have to wash out crumbs. 

"What _do_ you need? Water? Everyone needs water."

You run your fingers under the sink and then let a couple drops fall on him. He stirs and makes a series of clicks in protest, followed by a buzzing sound as he shakes himself dry. 

…

"Clearly I have a lot to learn… Help me help you? Give me _something,_ man. I can't work with this." 

He doesn't respond, so you give up and decide it's time for old fashioned internet research. You retrieve your phone while he snoozes in silence amidst your silken, fluffy head hay.

* * *

**> Start over as the bug.**

You are now Jay'kengl'sh, and you're having one gihungous humdinger of a rotten day.

Caught out in inclement weather, battered on every shrub and tree branch between here and friggin Timbuktu by gale-force winds, chilled to the bone (Er. Metaphorically speaking, of course) by a bonafide blizzard, at this point you might as well've been boardwashed like an angry maid's laundry and then freezedried.

You black out midflight, and the next thing you know, some giant, squishy mammal is drooling over you. 

You realize that your wings are all but jiggered and the rest of you's not much better, but you're not about to take death lying down.

So, here's to one last push. One final fray with every last scrap you've got.

(You were Dirk, not too long ago. You've done this dance.)

A valiant effort, to be sure, but there are some fights you just can't win.

So now, here you are, exhausted and cornered with nothing left to give besides a feeble warning that you've got jabby parts and you're not afraid to use them.

He snatches you away from the clutches of feline-imposed death just in the nick of time and proceeds to further confuse you with his behavior by plopping you onto his warm belly and falling asleep.

Maybe he's just stupid. You can work with that. Until you figure out what to do with yourself, you could use a good rest. It's not like you're in any shape to find a way out, and the world outside of this shelter is most unforgiving. You doubt you'd survive a repeat of that.

So, you cozy up and try to snooze despite the monstrous digestive noises jostling you, basking in his heat. You manage to succumb to the void, and then a different voice wakes you. He responds to it, and as the exchange progresses, you can't help but wonder if they're talking about you and if the new person can help. However, he has you stuck in place.

"Let me out! … Please? I just want to make their acquaintance.

…

…

…

Hey! I'm in here!!! Tell him to release me from these confines!"

He eventually does on his own, but by then, the newcomer has departed. Just your luck. 

Still, he's proving to not be… dangerous, persay. Far too unpredictable for your liking, but he doesn't seem to harbor ill intent. You don't fancy being kept like a caged gnat, though. 

You go for a hike and settle down in his unfathomably soft hair, a phenomenon that almost makes this ordeal worth it. Almost.

He tries to pluck you off, but withdraws when you inform him that you'll have none of that- you're staying put, thanks much. A couple minutes pass before he offers you a weird orange thing nearly as tall as you. You pretend you don't see it, but then he's assailing you with… water? 

"Appreciate the gesture, but kindly leave me be…" 

He lets you doze. You're awakened an unknown amount of time later by a gentle but forceful removal from his luxurious mop. You're too tired and disoriented to object aside from an indignant yelp when he plops you into some transparent prison, lamenting the loss of your radiator. 

The bottom is lined with sheets of white, fibrous material that cushion your fall. A wad of it sits in a basin, saturated with water. The adjacent basin is saturated with sweet-smelling orange liquid. Another weird orange triangle is propped beside it.

Does… Does he not know you lack real mouthparts and biological functions? For Pete the Dragon's sake, you subsist on light; you neither need nor care to futz around with such cumbersome activities... To be fair, it's not like you've permitted him a good gander of you, and it's unlikely he's seen any magic individuals before you. You might stick your proboscis around to not let him think his efforts were in vain. But first, you want to find out if you can't escape these cold confines.

He watches you intently. It's like every motion picture where the monster peers in and you feel uncomfortably seen. Exposed. In this case... studied?

Intelligent eyes filled with flames dissect you, reminding you of a hunter with ample time and nothing to lose. Whether he's curious, cruel, or overcontrolling, the fact remains that you are trapped at his discretion. 

**> Accept your fate.**

With all other options exhausted, you face your reckoning with dignity. 

…

Who are you kidding? You curl up into a ball against the furthest-away side and pray that he's a benevolent god.

* * *

**> Dirk: Peer into the jar and decide this is the weirdest experience of your entire goddamn life. **

He seems to be becoming more unnerved by your scrutiny by the minute.

**> Have a mini crisis over whether you're so horrible that you're the first person to make a bug cry.**

Listen, you've seen some shit in your twenty-six years, but you've never witnessed another species curl into the fetal position and cry. 

Is that really what's happening here? Maybe he's just… molting or something, and it was lost in translation like other animal behaviors. Hell, even humans have nonverbal communication barriers across cultures. 

**> Quick, snap a pic.**

…

Tempting, but no. You do want to figure out what the fuck you're dealing with, but bros don't photograph bros leaking iridescence or laying on their side, hugging their limbs and rocking. You imagine this situation is jarring enough for him as is, so you turn your attention to your phone to give him a reprieve. You bring up DuckDuckGo and type "can bugs cry" but the best you can find is something about distress pheromones. You fall down that rabbithole and learn that it's unclear whether they feel emotions or if they're just too different to be understood yet. You follow it with "bug rainbow fluids" and get nowhere useful. 

Ultimately, you come to the begrudging conclusion that he isn't a bug. He may resemble a demon spawn from the Land Down Under, but nothing matches- no other quirky stick-leaf-mantis-beetle fusions seem to exist _anywhere._ To further complicate your research, nothing even shares his behaviors, and he expresses emotions more like a human than any other intelligent species you've heard of (the majority of which being mammals). 

You really don't like not having an answer, but it's not like you can just ask the dude what his deal is… unless you figure out a language you can both use, provided he's as advanced as he's demonstrated so far.

"Uh. Hey... Hey there, lil dude." 

He flinches again, and you fall silent. His form remains rigid and trembling. 

"... Can you understand me?" you murmur under your breath. The tension seems to dissolve as you continue, but he stays tightly curled up.

"Ok. I'm going to try a few things here. Raise any ol' limb if you can understand me."

He doesn't, but he seems soothed by your voice. 

"You're gettin' a choice ASMR session. Hoes be jealous, as they say… Regardless of whether you actually know the meaning of these words, I think we can work with this. 

…

And, uh, sorry for abducting your alien-lookin' ass. Hoping you're not hurt- I mean, obviously you're hurt, but I'm hoping that was all preexisting because I have enough shit on my guilt complex-slash-conscience."

He hazards a peek up at you, then begins to unfurl and fix his eyes on you.

"... Heh, cute. Think I can let you out?" 

You open the jar with caution. He stays frozen but snaps out of his stupor when you reach down to poke him tentatively. He jolts and shifts to Spiky Plant Mode like a hedgehog. You yank your hand back and carefully reattach the lid. 

…

"Too much, too soon? Sorry."

He confirms the lid is secure and unfolds just like that.

"Ok, so clearly you're too injured to survive long if you fuck off on your own, and, even if you weren't, I'm not about to let you turn into a beanpolesicle. I… I can remedy this. Probably.

…

Linguistics is a special interest of mine. It's about time I have a use for it." 

You stand slowly, then turn around to retrieve your conksucky art supplies from the shelf behind you. Then, you shuffle a couple feet away to grab the half-empty bag of Doritos lying on the counter, along with the bottle of generic orange soda and two glasses of water. You return with your arms comically full, too proud to make an extra trip. You set everything down on the table even slower, as far away from the jar as possible. He watches in curious alertness. 

You dip a brush into one of the glasses, then proceed to swirl and clink your way through incredibly shitty watercoloring attempts. You blow on the soggy paper impatiently until you can detail the images with pen. 

You point to him and say, "you." He wiggles his antennae as if following. The next painting, a flower, berries, and a leaf with a bite mark, you call "food," and he tenses up again before you point to the soda and chip, declaring them the same. The third is just water, which is referenced accordingly. You then pour a droplet of soda into a third bottle cap from your stash and dilute it with water. You place it and another Dorito next to the jar, then hurriedly scribble yourself opening the jar and him sitting on the table with your offerings. He studies them for a while before meeting your eyes. The awkward staredown is followed by him fluttering haphazardly and attempting to open the lid himself. 

"We're doing this, man."

You free him and back away. He pokes his feelers out in a tentative manner, gauging the danger before clambering over to the stuff and investigating it. Eventually, he sticks his proboscis in the drink and stays like that for a couple seconds. He then pokes at the chip with his antenna and gets cheese dust on it like pollen. He cleans it off and turns away.

"Damn, message received. Your loss.

I don't know what you need, though. Help a guy out?"

You pick up the chip, not about to let it go to waste. He whirls around and scurries backwards, spikes out in defense. You apologize again despite there being no point and reclaim your seat, munching pensively. 

He settles down once more and watches you. You lay a hand upturned on the edge of the table, fingers outstretched toward him. It takes long enough for the limb to fall asleep by the time he finally approaches it, caution in each step. He swirls his antennas around the nearest fingertip before deciding to place a hand on it. You wait with baited breath, struggling to stay still despite the tremor of your pulse. You're rewarded several minutes later when he climbs the rest of the way on. He becomes bolder as the trust exercise progresses, scuttling up your unmoving arm a bit before looping back to your clammy palm. He wiggles three of his limbs in patterns, accompanied by several clicks and a chirp. You just blink, feeling dumb. He tries a couple more times in vain, forewing twitching from frustration. He looks around before going over to the watercolor palette and putting two arms in it, turning to you pointedly. You dip the paint rag in the dirty cup, and he follows your earlier demonstration, wetting his limbs and getting to work. You bring the paper closer for his sake and try not to hover too close as he draws strange symbols. Then, he waits.

"... I have no idea what that says."

He realizes as much from your blank response, slumping. After a moment, he attempts charades. You try to take it seriously. 

As a last resort, he taps your hand, then points at the window. 

…

"You want me to let you out? … I don't know what I expected." 

You doodle him on his back with X's for eyes, then point at him and the window before reemphasizing the doodle. He kicks the palette, which doesn't so much as budge. You wait, and then he starts to paint an elaborate story:

An island which became rich in alien biodiversity after a meteor impacted its evolution. Cute little Disney Fairy houses with advanced technology. A temple where the meteor struck, containing a giant lotus that sparkles like him. A scene above the clouds, blues and greens below. His species flying through the Aurora Borealis to bring back iridescent energy that sustains the lotus, which in turn preserves the island to make it the paradise that it is and protect it from all threats, even rendering it nonexistent to the outside world.

Then, a storm. He points to the window again for emphasis. 

You summarize what you understand in more scribbles: a bunch of bugs made a round trip, but he was separated on the way home. He gestures between both renditions excitedly, and you smile. You paint a colorful sequence next: the sky clearing, the snow melting, and flowers coming up to bloom. Then you draw yourself fixing his wings and bringing him outside to fly away. 

He contemplates this. It's clear that he isn't thrilled about being grounded for so long, but he accepts the reality of his situation. He perches on your thumb with his wings facing you and finally unfurls the rig for you to examine. The shell itself you could probably get back into place and coat with surgical glue so it can heal right… The cellophane-like mess underneath is a whole other issue, though. You entertain the idea of making the world's tiniest bionic prosthetics until he glances at you. You pet the intact section with a featherlight fingertip for reassurance, which he either appreciates or tolerates. You assume it's the former when he stretches out in your palm and starts droning quietly like a purring kazoo as you continue. Ok, time to get to work.

You carry him to your bathroom and prop him up atop a makeshift surgical table. You take a couple minutes to retrieve supplies you acquired for various esoteric hobbies, including a magnifying stand, two pairs of super fine tweezers, a tiny paintbrush, and the aforementioned glue. He picked the right dude's window to crash into- that's for sure. 

You return to find he hasn't budged. He stays still even when you start poking around to prop up the shell halves. Like reconstructing a broken vase made of bent and cracked car metal, you correct each fragment and hold it in place with the tweezers while the glue dries before moving onto the next one. You take care to keep any droplets from falling onto the rest of him, tissues neatly folded over his wings and body like towels on a spa client. An unknown amount of time passes while you hyperfocus and triumph over your limitations as an organic being thanks to technology. Once you deign the shell as good as it's gonna get, you sit back, set your tools down shakily, and wipe away your sweat with a deep sigh. 

"Holy shit, that was intense." 

You give yourself another minute before removing the tissues and the wires propping the shells up. He still isn't moving or speaking, and your mind goes to a dark place as you wonder whether it was the glue or if he fucking died somehow before you even started, so you pat him gently and lower your head until you're eye level, chin on the sink. He startles at that, which assuages your fears. 

"You're a star patient. Wish I had stickers to give out." 

You laugh through your nose at your own joke, billowing warm air over him and making his antennas wave like those branches in the wind. He just looks at you blankly, then points at his back with an arm. You offer a thumbs up which he doesn't seem to understand, so you grab the Post-It pad from your pocket like you're Steve from _Blue's Clues_ and play another round of the world's shittiest game of Pictionary. Two images: a before and after, the after emphasized by pointing at the tools before the note and then at his back. He runs several limbs over it in awe but doesn't try to fly since he's aware that you weren't able to figure out the rest yet. He lights up within seconds and fumbles to get up off the slippery surface until you offer him a finger. He promptly hugs it with all six limbs, fluttering the shells in excitement and bonking his head against you before resting it like that for a moment.

You fail to not tear up at the sight, managing a wavery "Don't mention it."


	2. Chapter 2

**> Dirk: Check in.**

Between the shenanigans, excessive sleeping, and open-shell surgery, you feel like you spent a whole day with this little dude… but according to your phone, it's only 2 PM. 

"Want a lift?" you offer, hand outstretched against the sink counter. He scuttles over to it, still in an excited frenzy, and for a moment, you imagine his limbs making the sound effect that Mr. Krabs did when he walked. 

He clambers onboard without hesitation, then folds his legs so that he can sit and look up at you. 

"Fuck me, that's adorable." 

He just tilts his head again, so you suck up your pride and smile, wondering if facial expressions translate. You don't give yourself time to dwell on it yet, though- you have priorities. 

You do cave to the desire to give him a gentle fingertip pat. He chirps in response. 

Content, you start to bring him back downstairs. At first, he stays perfectly still and keeps staring up at you, but then you guess his awestruck trance is broken by the realization that there are places he hasn't seen or explored yet, having been zonked out on the way up. He wiggles around and chitters as he observes his surroundings, then taps your thumb to get your attention. You stop walking, at a loss, and he just climbs your sleeve to perch on your shoulder like a miniature parrot. You mentally shrug it off and begin down the hall, but he pats your cheek this time. You crane your neck with a raised brow, and he points at several attractions behind you simultaneously with his arms. You're not sure what to think, but you entertain the idea that this would be a lot easier if he could steer you ala _Ratatouille._

"You want a tour? Can't promise I'll make a great guide if we can't understand a single word each other says…"

He points again, but this time he narrows it to one in the general direction of "backwards," so you turn around and walk slowly for him to observe your surroundings- mostly that tacky wall art, interspersed by cat portraits and narrow, ornate marble tables holding unused candles or vases with fake flowers, as well as a metric shitload of thrifted 80s and 90s nostalgia and large metal cat statues. You wonder if anyone else has accidentally walked into these solid rock corners and sharp felines in the dark, but you're confident that you hold the record. Seriously, this place is dangerous as shit. A death trap, even. Good thing you live on the edge.

… Who are you kidding? You're a soft motherfucker in recovery, with pastimes that include actively endangering yourself to satisfy your self-destructive impulses and get that sweet adrenaline rush. You're going to need to reevaluate that at some point, but you have enough work to do without a complete lifestyle upheaval.

He interrupts your thoughts by peering over your peripheral at the balcony, so you pause to show him the view below. Fancyass chandeliers coated in dust hang from the high ceiling, which sports a couple skylights, too- you can't look at them without remembering the fucking huge branches that bounce off them at random, so you prefer not to. Right now, they're buried under thick blankets of snow, so what little you could see from this angle is obscured. 

He studies the scene for a good couple minutes like someone in a museum, then turns his little bug head to you and points the opposite direction. 

"Seen enough?" 

He, of course, doesn't reply, but you soon learn that he wants to investigate the candles and fake flowers. You can almost see his disappointment the moment he sticks his weird butterfly tongue on them, and you struggle to keep a straight face. 

Curiosity apparently sated, he goes quietly down the rest of the hall, viewing the compressed jpegs with a polite air. 

Then, you reach the stairs. You're more than a little nervous about him falling, but it's not like you can brief him about their hazards. He waits, so you take one step, and then two more. You hazard a glance at him, but he's busy ogling another wizard. You inhale slowly and continue down to the first landing. He's still unphased, now focused on the view outside. 

**> Descend.**

You steel your nerves and finish the tedious journey, which apparently wasn't all that tedious to begin with. Even if he did fall, he seems pretty sturdy, if being flung by hundred mile-per-hour winds into a hard surface and not dying is any indication. You were mostly worried about falling on top of him, somehow, and crushing him with plush ass. That's _not_ your fetish, thanks. 

In your relief and preoccupation, you almost trip on a cat, but you steady yourself without any casualties. The cat just walks away, and your carapacian companion scoots closer to your neck, watching it warily. 

"You good, dude?" 

Realizing the question is directed at him, he peeps. You relax and carry on to the kitchen, where you intend to research said plush ass off in order to establish some kind of… communication, if a mutual spoken language is unfeasible given your respective anatomies. You're pretty sure bugs don't even have vocal chords. 

He's content to stay on your shoulder for the time being, securely fastened with his peets and spikes like velcro. You almost want to test whether he can hang upside down, but you won't go betraying his trust in the name of science. You pull out your phone and get back to search engine-assisted research. He watches the screen intently. 

You're caught up in making a playlist of wholesome videos for, uh, future reference, featuring stars such as Koko the Gorilla and Alex the Parrot, when he squeaks up. You look at him, and he points to your phone. 

"... Ah, shit, of course you're fascinated by the wonders of human technology."

You raise it so he can see better, and he makes a grabby gesture, climbing down.

"Just don't break it? … That's dumb; you're, like, less than an ounce." 

You pop up the stand and offer it to him. He wastes no time trying to mimic your previous motions. You _really_ wish you could take a pic. 

He clicks on a recommended video and then accidentally clicks the ad, which brings up an insurance company's site. You gently scoot him aside to return to YouTube.

"Sorry, man; I can't even afford to insure a bug... The industry's a scam, anyway. One of these days, we should fly you to the land up North so you can learn about socialized medicine."

It's a damn shame he can't understand just how witty and hilarious you are, but you're no stranger to conversing with the cats, so it's not much different. Your monologues will just have to go unappreciated until you figure this out. 

… Yeah, you have no idea what you're doing. Diplomacy ain't easy; you two might as well be sifting through the ruins of the Tower of Babel looking for anything to establish a translation guide. Duolingo? No dice. You'll just have to carve your own goddamn Rosetta Stone and see what happens.

Of course, there's always the little kiddie educational videos, but the idea alone feels weird… You'll put a pin in it unless you find one with puppets. Hell, maybe you could just show him forty years worth of _Sesame Street_ and see what happens? 

He's still tapping away, wreaking havoc on your algorithms, but at least he seems to be figuring out the basics of watching clips without exiting prematurely. 

He's brought up a video of a dog pressing buttons and seems amazed to find it trapped beneath the glass. It gives you an idea. 

You grab a paper and pen from the art supply heap and start writing relevant words, accompanied by small, shitty illustrations. You're not going to insult him with patronization or bribery, but you will help enforce the ideas. 

He pays you no mind until you're ready. You hit the pause button and unintentionally teach him how to unpause, so you just lock your phone. You imagine that if he had any facial features besides expressionless eyes, he'd look pissed. His body language is enough to convey his displeasure.

"Sorry; just wanna try somethin'."

You hold up the paper and point to each one in succession, accompanied by the image, any physical reference nearby, and vocalization of the word. You do the whole sheet again for good measure once you reach the end, and then you demonstrate its use, pointing to the pictures of a hand and rectangle. 

"Hold… phone." 

You pick up the phone and repeat, "Hold phone."

You put the sheet down next to him, and he contemplates for a moment before pointing at the pictures you chose, but in the opposite order. You decide not to get pedantic this early into the game. He tries to go back to watching stuff as soon as you return your phone, but it remains locked. You can't help but smirk at the definite glare he gives you.

He tries to figure it out on his own in vain. Even if he found the button, it's unlikely he can push it down with enough force. You continue, hoping to make more progress before he goes back to his cultural enrichment. 

He points between the phone and picture, as if to say, "I get it." You nod and hope he'll start picking up the nonverbal stuff without you needing to explain, because this is already hard enough. You're tempted to just sign into Netflix on an old phone and give it to him if there's a chance he can learn via osmosis instead of you larping a speech pathologist or whatever... but first, you have to make this as difficult as possible for the both of you.

He points at the phone a third time, and you feel bad, but you shake your head in a denial of his request. 

"Soon," you promise. He makes a gesture that you're pretty sure is supposed to be rude. 

With no better way to entertain himself, he trudges over and starts tippity tapping on the sheet, waiting for your response each time. Some of the combinations are more nonsensical than others, but you indulge him. After a while, he stiffens, points past you, and frantically tells you to "hold cat," which you're about to brush off before you hear paws padding on the counter. 

You hold that cat, alright. Now, he's the one encouraging you, urging you to "cat outside." You shake your head again but don't let the cat get any closer. 

He slumps dejectedly and then tries another combination. 

"Food… cat? Cat food? Not sure I follow." 

He repeats it, and when you don't respond, he mimes jaws opening and closing with two limbs. 

"I'm not eating the fucking cat, dude." 

He marches to your supplies and fails to lift the pen but manages a golf pencil. It's cumbersome (the equivalent of you dragging a two-meter-tall log around), so it takes him a while to master between breaks, but then he's informing you in a series of doodles that cats kill everything, even without trying. That sounds kind of biased and unrealistic, you think, but then he depicts saliva in graphic detail and emphasizes that it's lethal. You scritch the furball's ears and imagine her with komodo dragon toxins. 

With your free hand, you point to your crude rendition of his island and then the cat. He repeats it and overemphasizes the cat several times. 

Now you're curious, so you grab your phone and ignore him in favor of [a short, one-handed read.](https://www.ecosia.org/search?q=cat+saliva+kills+wildlife)

"Oh, fuck, you're right." 

You bring up YouTube again in apology, more than a little worried about him. It would be pretty fucking depressing if fairies were real once but housecats killed them off. What next- selkies suffocated in plastic bags? Elves driven to extinction by the introduction of grass lawn food deserts? 

The cat wriggles in your hold, again trying to make a beeline for the table. She, like the ones who were closing in on him earlier, looks captivated, so you carry her to the kitchen entrance and start shutting the accordion divider, having to shoo her out of the way with your foot repeatedly to thwart her attempts to reenter. There's a rustle as she vocalizes her annoyance, but once the handle clicks she can't get past. 

When you reclaim your seat, he ditches the device to hug your finger again like you're his hero. It's kind of gay (even for you), but like hell are you gonna complain. You pet his back again and cave to the desire to snap a pic. 

"Eat my ass, NSA," you announce habitually. Hopefully your FBI man isn't interested, either. You did a damn good job of jailbreaking and encrypting your devices, but you can never be too safe. 

He's looking up at you, and you realize he probably thought you were talking to him. 

"I have some choice cinematic titles in mind for us. What do you think, lil dude? You, me, movie marathon on TV?" 

He stares at you blankly for a moment, then releases your finger and points to the phone yet again. You nod. 


	3. Chapter 3

**> Jay'kengl'sh: Experience the wonders of Netflix. **

He puts the "phone" gizmo in one of the pouches on his adornments and scoops you up gently. You chitter a little in protest before going catatonic again at the pets that follow. You vibrate in bliss, ignoring the sweaty and twitchy qualities of his hands in favor of the soft warmth and sense of safety they provide. 

You manage to stay alert enough to see that he's carrying you somewhere new. For reasons beyond you, this place is absolutely _swarming_ with felines. It puts you on edge, but as long as he's got the situation handled… The way he interacted with the most recent one reminded you of the wooly aphids people keep as companions where you come from. Aphids, however, don't inflict bodily harm and thus aren't known to wipe out entire populations. 

His species is very strange. 

He carries you to a new chamber below and sets you down on another plush piece of furniture before activating a large version of the phone attached to the wall in front of you with a device the size of the previous one. He presses buttons as it flashes through different screens for a couple minutes before beginning a motion picture. The audio comes from everywhere at once, as if you two are immersed in the scene. You scoot closer, eyes fixed on the magic transpiring. It… seems to be about bees? But they're far from realistic, with a disturbing degree of humanoid features. You're fascinated all the same.

He rifles through a heap of floral-scented adornments in a basket on the floor until he retrieves a fluffy pink encasement smaller than his feet. He offers it to you casually, so you snuggle into the fleece and make a small trill of bliss, sticking your head out and getting comfortable with your arms folded at the entrance. He laughs quietly through his nose and pulls a blanket over himself, mirroring your position parallel to him. Jiminy and the Junebugs, he's downright endearing. You're confident now that his intentions are pure, and you can get away with studying him like this, since you don't have his peripheral vision limitations. You bask in the glory of his existence as he alternates between playing with the phone in his hands and viewing the phone on the wall: his abundance of feathery hair, the way his tan, pliant skin shifts with his muscles as he expresses emotions, the widening and scrunching of his eyelids and brows and how his lips pull back to curl in nonthreatening ways, none of which seem to be done in a deliberate manner... He's cute. Divine. You find yourself starstruck, really. 

"I think you're lovely," you mumble, secure in the knowledge that he can't understand a lick of your language. He hums in response, and soon you're struck with the somewhat horrifying realization that the flick appears to be centered around an interspecies relationship between the protagonist "bee" and a human. Maybe his society is more progressive than you imagined. 

If he's trying to convey a message, he's going to need to be a bit more forthcoming. 

Thankfully, the next flick is just about humanoid bugs, but the irony is still kind of questionable. You fear he sees you as one of them, but you also don't care much either way, so long as he doesn't think you have a bug brain. For what it's worth, you don't consider him primative. Perhaps there's hope for you yet.

After a while, he gets up with a gesture to stay put, and you squeak indignantly, because for all you know you'll be devoured by a "cat" before his return. You mime one since the sheet is nowhere to be found, and you daresay it's one of your best charades to-date. You like to think he's impressed at your utilization of all your limbs. He tries to reassure you, but you won't have it. You predictably fail to flutter anywhere, but when you hit the ground, you waste no time in scurrying up the wall and getting situated in the gourdlike musical instrument on display. It's securely fastened with metal stakes, and the hollow is larger than your bedroom back home. You shimmy between two strings with a twang, which reverberates around you and makes your hearing plates ring. He just watches it all, then silently offers you the plush foot encasement, which you tug through. He makes the gesture again, and you mimic the nod he keeps using. His smile reappears at that, and he nods back before he departs. You don't understand why he's leaving you behind, but no matter. You resume your cultural immersion from afar. You've no idea what these animated monstrosities are discussing, but you think it's more fun to guess the plot in any case. Most of them vaguely resemble ants. It's just as stupendous as the bee one, albeit more suspenseful. 

The other human walks by unexpectedly and calls for yours. There's a muffled response from beyond the corridor, and she laughs. She flops down where he was sitting, then jumps up seconds later and looks around frantically. Her inquiring tone leads you to assume she's trying to find you, so you sink as low as possible and remain silent. You're eternally grateful that your human doesn't divulge your location. 

She reclaims her seat and starts chatting in a casual manner. It's hard to focus on the action onscreen anymore, but you try. Eventually, she gives up waiting for him and puts on a colorful show featuring what loosely approximate equines. The music and overall theme are cheery, so you fold your top limbs under your chin and latch your middle ones onto the cedar to continue peering out, propping yourself up with your legs. You catch your antennas bopping along to the tunes subconsciously. 

A wave of relief washes over you when he returns, following the sounds of rushing water and a door closing. He's preoccupied with her conversation and drying his hands on his garments but sneaks a glimpse at you without drawing attention. You wiggle a limb in greeting as is apparently customary, and his expression softens, eyes crinkling at the edges.

This may be a problem. 

He's gentle and kind, but there's no way he'll reciprocate. You've only known him for a half day, and you can't even fully understand each other yet. Besides, what if the other human is his mate and they're monogamous? 

He sprawls out next to her, and she rests her head on his shoulder. It doesn't take long for her to fall asleep, breathing loudly through her mouth and drooling on him. He just drapes his arm around her with a bemused grimace. 

You seize the opportunity and scuttle out, ducking to avoid making another twang. It's a tedious journey from there to the wall, but afterwards is more or less smooth sailing. You climb his side of the furniture and peep quietly to alert him to your presence. He raises a brow but smiles nonetheless and offers a hand, which you happily accept. You settle down in his palm as he strokes you with his thumb, hugging one of his other digits and smushing your head into it. You're not feeling clingy, no siree, just enjoying your new companion's company and every scrap of affection you can glean while it lasts. 

Even if they permit you to stay, you're going to have to come home at some point. Not that there's a home waiting for you, persay, let alone anyone missing you, but you've been taught that you'll expire from the overabundance of magic attached to you if the lotus doesn't absorb it, maybe in some grand implosion of pixie dust. That'd be wicked. 

Right, you were contemplating your interpersonal issues. 

Like the fake bee protagonist, you've never belonged in a society. Sure, you're friendly with folks and some tolerate you on a semi-regular basis, but you doubt they'll be pleased at your return, considering how badly you bungled your duties. Being chosen to traverse the globe was a privilege (even if selection is random, you're considered expendable, and you had no say in the matter), and everyone's _counting_ on you to bring your share of the energy in a timely fashion, consarn it! Now they're a page short and likely regretting trusting you with that responsibility, but going back to surviving on your lonesome in your dinky little house past the outskirts is inevitable. You really aren't looking forward to the future, so you're trying to make the most of the present and every wonderful aspect of it. 

Oh, great. You're leaking more magic, like some sort of emotional reaction. What a waste… but arguably, so are you.

You fight to quell your nerves, but he notices anyway. He squints and brings his hand closer with a look of concern. The last thing you wanted was to ruin this moment. If he knew you for anything but your apparent exotic intrigue, he for certain would stop doting and toss you aside.

His breaths are soft and warm like the rest of him, and coupled with the pets, they're unfairly relaxing. You, of course, feel guilty for causing additional trouble, but it doesn't seem to be any skin off his skeleton. You fail to repress a whimper, and then he does the unexpected: he leans forward and, before you can react, shushes you in a comforting tone, barely audible, followed by a smooch that covers your entire upper back. You go still and silent in shock, but then hug him tighter at his own physiological response to what you assume is anxiety that he screwed the pooch by crossing a boundary of sorts. The slight tremor fades as his pulse evens out, and he goes back to petting you.

Was that an actual smooch? Your species may lack mouths, but you do have your neat ornamental proboscises that serve all sorts of purposes except consumption. You can smell and taste, and they're super sensitive, so it's not uncommon to bond by booping or intertwining them like elephant trunks. You'll have to do some, er, research on the subject, but he's also babying you like a nymph, so you might've just invoked his nurturing instinct by being so damn weak and pathetic in comparison to him... Yeah, there's a strong likelihood of it being pity. 

You won't milk it, but you'll still take it. Your shame can't stop you now that you're this far gone. 

Skaia help you, you're deep in the muck with no desire to get out. 


	4. Chapter 4

**> Dirk: ???**

_Hope this doesn't awaken anything in me,_ you thought to yourself, moments after kissing a bug on impulse. 

It was always too late. You were born awake, and now your shit is wrecked. 

You're impressed that Roxy predicted your infatuation, but maybe you're just in denial about being subtle. In either case, to reference John Mulaney, you'll internalize all your emotions, and then one day, you'll die (ideally). There's no way the dude is attracted to you, and therefore no point in getting attached. If you love him, you'll let him go, and he'll fly off into the sunset to find a sexy bug wife, unscathed by your plethora of issues. 

That's the plan, and you're sticking to it. 

...

Why did he start crying again? Did he miss you? Or is he just going through some personal shit? Maybe it's for the best that you can't pry. 

He strokes several millimeters of your skin with an arm, slowing down over time until he goes still. His whole "sleeping with unblinking eyes" thing freaks you out a little, but as long as he doesn't die on you, it's all good. His body thrums faintly against you, still wet with tears. 

At least, you think it's tears? The rainbow stuff. It looks pretty, but part of you is afraid it's just miscellaneous bodily fluids. There's a ridiculous amount- without the tissues lining the jar to absorb it, it gets all over him and then some. You're surprised and lowkey grossed out that he seems indifferent.

… It smells fruity, like that strawberry lip gloss Rox uses. 

The puddle of forbidden juice tempts you. You ignore it for a while, but there's only so long that a man can sit around as a bored and curious pillow. 

You take painstaking effort to avoid waking him while bringing him closer to get a better whiff. He doesn't stir, so you stick your tongue out and ever-so-carefully dip it in the edge of the oil sheen iridescence before withdrawing to savor it. It tastes sweeter than you expected, but you only sampled a tiny amount, so you go back for seconds and have to fight down another borderline erotic noise. You've lost track of how many times you've asked yourself why you're like this. For fuck's sake, it's probably poisonous.

The third lick is clumsy and nudges him. You retract your tongue like a chameleon. He stirs for a moment, flips onto his shells, and then goes quiet. Minutes pass before you go at it yet again, and this time, you're busted... At least, you think? The eye thing wigs you out. 

You start to withdraw and assume he'll never forgive you when he latches onto your tongue with a peet. You freeze, and then he lets go and reaches up to take hold of your cheeks between two limbs, seeming to try to tug you back, so you comply, all nerves and guilt. It was beyond stupid; for once, you weren't thinking about anything except being horngry. Deep down, the satisfaction outweighs your regret, but you hate that. 

You don't know what to anticipate- retribution, maybe? Will he give you a piercing free of charge? 

He… He unfurls his proboscis most of the way and rests it on the tip of your tongue. A moment passes in which time seems to stand still. Your heart catches in your chest, and fuzzy heat floods your entire being in the form of butterflies. Before you can stop yourself, you're rubbing mouthparts against each other (restrained and light on your end). It tickles, but it's so. fucking. _tender._ and makes your stomach do somersaults just to be able to sense such tiny movements. You feel giddy... high, even. 

Oh, god. How did you end up here? You went from being a renowned animatronics polymath to French (butterfly?) kissing a bug. Have you reached a new low? 

Fuck it; if this is rock bottom, you can't wait to get digging.

The "kiss" lasts less than half a minute, broken abruptly by a particularly loud, jarring snore from your shoulder. She really has no business dunking on you for your sleeping quirks. 

He curls up the spiral and looks away in a shy manner. Your face is hot, but you give his a chaste smooch, which covers him from his neck to halfway up his antennas. He stiffens and then presses into your lips, nuzzling. 

You pull back when the silence seems to drag on for too long, just in case you're suffocating him. You can't believe you were able to pretend Roxy wasn't there, let alone actually enjoy it- you might be buzzed on bug juice, to be honest. It tastes way too good; you can't resist lapping the rest up and cleaning him off before leaving him be. He squirms as you do and makes a quiet chitter that resembles a giggle. 

You part, sigh in bliss, and allow yourself to mellow the fuck out. He seems content to not acknowledge what just went down, having resumed cuddling your finger. In any case, there's still a whole language barrier between you two, so it's not like you can have some flowery heart-to-heart. Even if you managed to avoid waking Roxy, her drool would kill the mood without that hormonal rush to distract you.

You pet him once more, and he holds your thumb with his foot, which is the size of a pinhead. 

You're soft. God, you're soft.

* * *

The wonderful heroboof sprung this on me before the chapter was even written:

[Shitart (no canon Jake ref yet)](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/793608302910373918/800202604171755530/AirBrush_20210104054823.jpg)

[Funky Mantis](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/793608302910373918/800203128951537674/SPOILER_iu.png)

[Wooly Aphid](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/793608302910373918/800440792341676072/MHVHGHBH8HTHIHJH6H3HPHZR5LEZ8LLR2H3HPHLR8LPZGHTHXHCH5H2ZZL5Z0LAHZLPZMHVH7HEZMH.jpg)


	5. Chapter 5

**> Jay'kengl'sh: Revel in this turn of events.**

You're downright twitterpated. Equal parts dumbfounded and exuberant.

Yeah, that's... really all there is to say about the matter. It's happening so fast! Criminy, you don't even know how to address the chap.

You feel pretty gross being salivated on, but that's a small sacrifice. Perhaps you can get back to that water spout and clean yourself off properly. So long as you don't come across as rude… 

Maaaybe put a pin in that for the time being. It might be a bit hasty if he opts to, er, up his antics. So far, they've been very forward.

… He's already displaying human mating rituals for you on the wall phone. Music plays as a calm, disembodied voice narrates two (real! not fictional!) folks dancing to their heart's content, limbs intertwined, and then the scenes flash through what you assume to be everyday activities. The voice gets very fast at the end, and alien symbols take up the display before the colorful equines return. 

He raises the screenless device to press a button but hesitates, then lowers it. You glance back and- oh, he's bopping his head a little to the tune. The thumb that isn't petting you starts swaying rhythmically. 

…

That's a blunt invitation if you've ever seen one. Alrightyroo, guess it's showtime! You've waited your whole life for this moment and you fancy him quite a lot, so "nervous" would be an understatement. Reluctantly, you stop spooning him and get up. His hand isn't great for balance considering its squishy, uneven, and perpetually-moving attributes, but the grooves of his skin allow you to get your footing. You steel yourself and begin to mirror his thumb's dance, swaying from side to side. He raises a brow again and breaks into a quiet laugh as you continue. Your nonexistent heart breaks with it.

Is your performance not up to par? ... Are you not good enough? 

He steps it up a notch, adding a little wiggle and zigzag to the routine. You mimic it seamlessly, bobbing your head and stepkicking in all directions between lunges.

"Please, give me a chance to woo you properly! No bipedal bloke could hold a spark to this!!!"

He looks amused, which… wasn't the response you were hoping for, but entertainment is better than rejection. You resolve to impress him, one way or another, even if you can't sweep him off his feet. He alters the pattern every now and then as if testing your skills. After a while, you realize you're at an impasse and throw in the metaphorical towel. Clearly, the message he's sending is that you've got to take the initiative if this courtship is to progress!

You bust out your best moves, the ones reserved for galas and whatnot. He goes still in shock, and you regret using your more experimental forward-and-backwards wiggles before he switches to two fingers, pointed down like legs. He adds the other two as arms and extends one to you, thumb behind them.

Ohohoh, _now_ you're skating with slippers.

**> Get jiggy with it.**

You hoof it like there's no tomorrow. He swings with you, linked to your front arms as he "steps" and "kicks" with his makeshift legs in a funky manner. The song has since shifted to a more exhilarating tempo, but in time it ends and he starts humming a slow, lower variation of it. You hum along softly as you sway with him, staring up into his smiling eyes. 

**> Dirk: Get stickbugged.**

Lol.

[ https://youtu.be/c0_NtUhOw_g ](https://youtu.be/c0_NtUhOw_g)

[ https://youtu.be/ymgtb6V9ZR4 ](https://youtu.be/ymgtb6V9ZR4)

[ https://youtu.be/HKJIP7zKHmA ](https://youtu.be/HKJIP7zKHmA)

**> Roxy: Stop contaminating your man. **

You ignore the narrative prompt in favor of your whimsies. You'll stop slobberin' on Di-Stri when you're good and rested. Besides, fuckin' everyone's been hibernating; it's your turn on the sleep. 

**> Don't you want to meet the bug?**

Patience. You can't rush a beauty snooze.

**> Ok, but they've been sleeping all day. Do they have to just sit and wait for you? **

Hm, that's a toughie… but they kinda put themselves there, and at least one of them partakes in depression naps nowadays. You got up at 5 am to make all those goddamn waffles and feed all those goddamn cats before adulting, so you deserve this. You don't need a traditional job thanks to your elite skillset that combines organic chemistry, physics, etc with pioneering technology. Your most recent accomplishment was figuring out how to test on animals without the animals- with Dirk and his AI's help, you used DNA sources such as cat hair to run accurate simulations. You love fucking around with the CRISPR virus just for the hell of it. The less exciting experiments tend to be easy peasy lemon squeezy but still a duckload of work. (You even transed your own gender back in the day, which is a fun thing to have on your resumé.)

Basically, you dick around in your basement lab and call the shots when you ain't conferrin' with colleagues and stakeholders. It can get lonely thanks to your shit luck in the romances department, so you jump on any opportunity to hoard company. It just so happened that your dear, sweet, precious, issue-laden internet friend was in need of some TLC, and you were happy to oblige. Not that he asked you to. You took it upon yourself to invite him and claim _you_ needed help, because no way in hell would he accept kindness. Nah, he's a hardass in that regard. The dude does everything he can and then some to protect others in his weird, roundabout way and cares too goddamn much; that has to be why he's always hurtin'. You know you broke his heart with the bullshit you pulled back in code camp, which is wack, considering _you_ were the one attracted to _him,_ but he still blamed himself until you bonked that notion outta his noggin. He's such a dumb intellectual. That's one of the many reasons you love him- _platonically._

He's had shit luck in the romances department as well. Like, yeah, he can get it, but it's hard for him to get them to stay. So you commiserate over being maladapted and miserable. 

Anyhoo, he was runnin' himself ragged. His brother freaked out at you because he wasn't answering his phone, and then he found him ko'd on the living room floor. Not even a series of bitchslaps could wake him. He had to wait hours for the bastard to do anything more than breathe, during which he snooped around and fucked with his personal belongings, like a good sibling. You distinctly remember him complaining about there being nothing edible in the apartment that wasn't months to years expired. 

Of course, Dirk felt guilty as hell for worrying you two once he actually regained consciousness, but by then it was too late. You were "xtremely mopey and needing an emotional support mans ASAPronto," so he packed up that day without question and set up shop in your majestic concrete castle. 

Once you ganked his caffeine sources, he started sleeping like a people and catching up on fuck knows how long he went without it. Also, turns out he has a raging boner for real food, probably because he was livin' on trarbage fumes. You ain't judgin'... Ok, maybe you are because it's hilarious to catch him makin' the Peter B. Parker face, but you ain't gonna say anything to him or tell anyone. He's your stray manbaby, and you WILL take the bestest care of him 'til he can thrive with a capital T on his own. You're so prouda this ridonkulously tall dumpass whomst has adjusted to the Rolondian lifestyle. The locals have become fond of him, probably for his ability to give three or more affection simultaneously. It's not uncommon to find him fuckdeep in pussies at any given time, like some kinda magnet. The irony of your phrasing doesn't escape him. 

**> [S] Wake. **

Hrghhh, fine… Your mouth is dry and your cheek is damp. Prince Himbo, of course, let you get your snooze on regardless. He's humming a dreamy rendition of the MLP theme accompanied by squeaks, all quiet enough to go under your radar until now. You _knew_ he secretly enjoys watching it with you. You make some gross noises as you wet your tongue to talk, and it stops. 

"Schorry…"

"S'fine," he snorts, stretching. You lean up to smooch his jaw, and he ruffles your hair. 

Then, you spot the bug in his free hand. 

"Omigosh, ohmagawsh, it's ADORBS!!!" 

You reach for the thing without hesitation, and it _screams,_ scurrying under Dirk's hoodie. 

…

"Whoops."

"To be fair, if I was that size I'd be scared shitless of you." 

"Sad but true," you sigh.

"He'll come around. Just needs to see that you're not a threat and won't cross any boundaries."

"Lookitchu livin' out some Disney movie~ Bet you sang to it."

"I didn't stoop that low."

"Dang. Woulda paid to watch."

"I know."

He hums quietly, and the lump under his hoodie gets settled atop his chest. It probably thinks you can't see it.

"... He thought I was planning to v-word him." 

"The fuck is a v-word? Vussy???"

"It's- Eat. That word."

You snort-laugh. He smirks.

"Sorry, I don't speak Dirkinese. But that's unvortunate." 

"Yeah... I don't think first impressions matter once he gets to know you."

"I want a bosom buggy..."

"Don't we all."

You fall into comfortable silence, watching the characters horse around. At the next commercial break, he resumes the conversation in a nonchalant manner.

"Semi-related: don't let your cats anywhere near nonhumans because they'll straight up kill them. Even if they're not bringing back gifts when they go outside, they can and will murder countless animals and apparently also tiny people. Their spit alone causes lethal infections within minutes, and they almost never survive if they aren't brought to a vet."

…

"Uhhh... Did it tell you that or... ?"

"I did my research. Point is, your furries are serial killers."

You gasp in shock and offense, recoiling in a melodramatic fashion.

"No the fuck they ain't!"

"Yes the fuck they are. Sorry."

"Oh, shit… It's that serious?"

"Billions reported in the States each year, and it's rare that anyone even bothers to report what their cats drag in, let alone what's let go, despite a goddamn lick being a death sentence without antibiotics." 

"Talk aboutta bummer… Guh, fine, so they're danger with a big D. Whoopty woop, we done here?" 

"I know what I have to do."

"Do ya, now?"

He rubs his brow, closing his eyes for a moment.

"... No. But I know I have to get him the hell out of dodge before one of your adorable little monsters gets to him."

"Noooooo. It'll be fine, Dirkadoo! We just gotta keep an eye on 'em."

"I can't risk it. I'm sorry."

"Blease stay..."

…

…

…

"We both need to be careful."

"Ay ay, Mister Stri, you got yourself a DEAL!" 

"For the record, if he had a say in this, there's no way he'd agree."

"Too bad we'll never know~" 

"... I'm enabling you by endangering him. Bro of the century right here." 

**> Begrudgingly reevaluate your motivations.**

"What if we just, like, kept the west wing off limits under lock 'n key? That way you'd only havta worry 'bout the rest of the house."

"Tempting… I'll try to ask him when he wakes up. It's not like either of us are doing anything productive. I've become dead weight here." 

"Are you for real? You've come a million bajillion miles since you set foot in mi casa!"

"The flight was less than 3k."

You roll your eyes with a grin.

"Don't play. Now you're actually accomplishing shit like sleeping and eating and hydrating normal-people style and not flyin' off the gotdam handle erry day. Plus you fuckin', you're doin' that good good [dee bee tee](https://dbtskills.tumblr.com/post/630065053643702272/skills-workbookpdf) stuff and therefore chillin' the fucketh out! That's P huge, JS."

"Can't forget the sporting."

"Aw, hell yis. You stayin' all active and healthy AND havin' fun! M' so prouda you, baby."

"It's nothing to be proud of, but thanks."

"Binch."

…

"Good point... I guess it's something."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This is the explicit chapter with weird kink stuff and unfinished shitart at the end. It's skippable; nothing plot-relevant really happens.)

**> Dirk: Don't let onto the fact that you made out with him while she slept.**

No way in hell. You'll take that to your grave.

…

You do feel sleazy for doing it a foot away from her, but you've accidentally walked in on worse, some of which involved your furniture and deviant AI replica. When he moved to the ISS, you weeped actual tears of joy. (You pretend you don't know that they still sext.)

**> We're here for the pixie, not an android.**

Right. You could swear that you felt his panic at her attempted yoink as if you were experiencing it firsthand. It took a significant amount of effort to stay calm until he chilled out. 

Now, you just feel mildly horny. 

"- went and genderized the thing when you don't even know if it HAS that shit," she laughs. 

"Hey, back up. We're working on communication, and I don't want to treat him as an object in the meantime. I get dude vibes, but it doesn't seem like his species has biological sexes since they hatch out of a goddamn magic flower like Thumbelina."

"Hm, ok, fair... but you could just use "they" or whatev."

"I could. But if it's all the same to him, I prefer to see him as a guy."

...

"Oh my gawd, you really do got the hots for a gotdam bug."

You begin to protest, but she just cracks up to the point of tears. You wait until she quiets down to speak.

"... Maybe I'm experiencing an awakening, courtesy of a three inch tall humanoid insect. What's it to you."

"Fuckin' hilarious is what!" 

"I'm not trying to make advances on Tinkerbro. He's just..."

You gesture to his sleeping form, outlined under your hoodie hugging your pec. Every now and then, he nuzzles it. It's doing things to you, but you're not about to acknowledge that.

"... Good point. Sorry for bein' home of phobic."

"Thanks. It's pretty impressive how quickly he set up shop… If this was one of your fics, it'd probably be a slowburn full of angst that would end in tragedy."

"Hah, yeah… You'd roll over on him in yer honeymoon suite."

"Terrible." 

"I try." 

...

"Just fyi, I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this conversation going with a little green man accidentally tickling my Cheese Nip at sporadic intervals, and I don't want to wake him." 

"S'all good."

…

…

...

"I'm. For the sake of avoiding awkward silence, I'll leave now." 

"Noooo, stay! I got shiz to do elsewheres. If en-tit-mology is the subject o' the day, then that's just how it be."

"... If you're sure you don't mind." 

"Wait... bugaboob. Can't think of a use for that one yet, but you can't unhear it an' that's what really matters."

"You're a goddamn artist."

"Damn GAY I am! Thanky wanky~"

"Sorry to boot you from another of your rooms." 

"Aight, I'm goin', I'm goin', don't get yer tiddies in a twist."

"Can you-"

"AND I'm shuttin' the door to keep the kitties out."

"Thanks."

She sashays away and picks up a cat you didn't even notice, followed by another who was lurking in the shadows. You shudder mentally despite their cuteness factor, imagining you'd feel the same if you woke up to find a jumping spider on your pillow. Adorable, but unexpected and unwanted in these circumstances. She does a sweep of the room for any other stealthy stalkerbeasts before yeeting them, along with herself. The handle clicks. You shut off the TV and exhale in relief, thumbing your nip absentmindedly like a fidget toy before catching yourself. The ticklish sensation is gone, at least. You aren't complaining. It feels nice, and you really want to rub him in deeper, but you can't just smother a dude with your left chesticle, for fuck's sake… At least, not without his consent. Even if said dude already has his face buried in it and is _still_ trying to snuggle closer. 

You chew your lower lip and succumb to the desire to play with your other tit. You slide your hand up your stomach to chest and start massaging, teasing your nip with barely-there touches until you cave and thumb it with more pressure, pushing down and rolling it. You drag the fingers that were rubbing the rest up to add stimulation and groan under your breath. 

_"Fuck,"_ you hiss.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you _know_ you're a microphile, but fuckin' hell, you didn't think it would be _this_ hard to have a little self-control. Just because he's sentient and all up in there doesn't mean it's inherently sexual to him… For fuck's sake, bugs don't even _have_ tits. How would he know it's an erogenous zone? Can you ask him how their sex works? You think that might be speciesist, or culturally insensitive at the very least.

You also think you're high on his tears. Should you be concerned? Probably. Are you going to address it unless you start foaming and tripping balls? Nah...

Guilt overwhelms you, so you unzip your hoodie, taking care to lift it above him first. He makes a sleepy, disoriented noise, too surprised to be disgruntled. Maybe it's because he can actually see your chest now? Hm. In any case, his sense of safety rattling around in your head is now overlaid with confusion. 

"Sorry; got horny for a sec there... Fuck, it's cold."

He pokes around the incision marks with his featherlight antennas. Concern mixed with curiosity. You swallow the boner-shaped lump in your throat to nudge him off. … Fear that he upset you? Damn, what the hell. You've never been able to read _anyone_ this well. You pat him reassuringly, and he relaxes. 

"I'm not sure who's going to come out of this feeling more awkward, but we need to have The Talk, even if we can't... talk... Just fuck me up," you mutter, fumbling for your phone.

You would love to deepthroat him and then shove him up your pussy, but you need to know what _he_ wants (if anything) by finally building the foundations of a solid language. He catches on at your feeble attempt to initiate it, so together you start by establishing simple gestures, taps, and clicks that you can both do for words like "yes," "no," "good," and "stop" by echoing what each other understands and correcting with clearer demonstrations when necessary. (For example, you form the word for bad through a series of depictions of things considered bad, recreating your earlier cat, snow, and dead bug doodles, which he then adds to by drawing a locked phone and jar. You can't help but smirk sheepishly at that. "Yes" and "no" are simple enough, given that they're used more distinctly than metaphorical green and red lights for offerings- if he says "no pets," you offer something else or leave him alone, but if he says "yes" and then "stop petting," you just stop and wait for further directions. Your mutual expressions, body language, and vocalizations help cement all of the ideas and confirm that you're on the same page. He had already picked up on nodding and shaking his head, which made it a lot easier.) 

Once the basics are down, you almost chicken out of your ultimate objective in favor of jacking off in the bathroom and calling it a day, but he catches you off-guard with another snugglehug and kiss to your knuckle. The butterflies flare up again. You could swear he's somehow radiating horny waves on the downlow, though, so you gotta clarify just how innocent he is.

You bite the bullet and show him stockphotos of bugs fucking. You sense mortification, so you stop and apologize, but then he shakes his head and requests your phone. You bring up the paint app again, and he promptly doodles Barry B. Benson getting it on with the chick. 

_Damn, Shawty, ok._

Within the next forty-odd minutes, he opts to learn… a lot about human anatomy and intercourse- how it works, what feels good, etc. You go a step further and show him your kink art after PornHub. He just observes it all studiously. When he's offered a turn, you hold it steady for him to… reciprocate. You screenshot each of his doodles before clearing them for the next one. Can't let that information go to waste, right? He's a decent artist. 

The good news: his species engages in recreational boinking as wanted but, as you assumed, doesn't reproduce themselves, considering they're all spawned by the lotus- they just get fucked up on its energy, use it to establish pseudo-psychic tethers amongst themselves for survival, and pollinate it when their numbers are low. What you gather is that their whole bodies become erogenous zones when aroused and that they get off to the overall sensations and intimacy.

The bad news: since he subsists on photosynthesis and lacks organs, he doesn't have anything below the waist, so you have no fucking clue what you're doing. Oh, but you want to. You're too far gone to hate yourself for that, but you're still pretty embarrassed by it. To his credit, he doesn't withdraw when you figure out how to tell him you're into this. He conveys that he finds you more attractive than any other being he's ever seen, real or otherwise. You blush like a motherfucker. He takes it upon himself to inform you that he doesn't know what the deal is with the juice once you add that it might be fucking you up the same way the lotus affects fairies, but it's not an excretion since he has no orifices or pores, which comes as a relief. You noticed that it just sort of… condensated around him, and tell him as much. You can feel him shrug indifferently as he draws the lotus sucking up all the returned fairies' light fields while they're still incorporeal. Because he missed that window, he… seems to think he's straight up melting from magic overload. The concept is disturbing enough. You suggest that he ditches it, and his wave of frustration jolts you.

"Hear me out, man. Can't you just… cry it off? It can't be worth holding onto if you're not even going to get there in time."

He gives you another look. You almost forgot that he can't understand you, so you hurriedly doodle bug tears. So many bug tears. The waterworks are followed by a non-imploding, happy bug and you with your tongue out.

He's dumbfounded in shock despite it not being a breakthrough. Your idea seems to whap him into the realization that you are, in fact, a brilliant hominid. 

He proposes that you invoke great emotional turmoil with a movie and gives his blessing to feast on his delicious sadness. It's tempting because you're a thirsty man, but you'd prefer to see if there are less painful ways to milk ecstasy from the void. He waits for a response. 

How do you ask a bug if you can suck him off? How can you find out if he even wants to hanky your panky without crossing any boundaries? You don't want to manipulate or alienate him.

There's no other way out of it; you're going to have to make memes.

You ask the million dollar question in the form of several explicit shitart [masterpieces](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/775837633057783808/803125811108380672/SPOILER_ce2156e708eaa3a5b064fe5012c1e7e1.png) that depict your every depraved thought. He stares at the compilation for a moment, then responds by getting back on your tit and starting to vibrate intensely. You gasp and stifle a whine at the iridescence that soaks through your sensitive skin. 

"Oh, god. Oh, fuck. I cannnnghaaah…"

You don't even know if he has a name. This puts every single one of your hookups to shame. 

But at least you have a glittery rainbow nip now. It's fitting, in the worst way. More importantly, it feels really goddamn good. You make that clear, which encourages him. 

You feel yourself up, palming your crotch with a low moan. He moves to the other nip and pinches it carefully between his blunt sides, studying your reactions for guidance as he twists it a bit. His solid black, expressionless bug eyes are killing the mood, so you close yours. The pressure feels just right. You slip a hand down your pants and start working your clit, slick and throbbing. The psychological aspect of this was already edging you, so you don't last long. 

You catch your breath, chest heaving and heart racing under him. You sign "good" at his tentative inquiry and pet him in a giddy, blissful haze as you recover. 

When you regain coherency, you notice that there's a rainbow bukkake dribbling down your torso. You scoop him into one hand, then swipe as much as you can up with the other and suck it off your fingers, licking them clean in a casual manner and getting it on your lips. He gawks at the sight.

"Fuck, how can _anything_ taste this sweet? … You look like you want my tongue back on you, so I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume it's jizz."

You make some ridiculous sex hand gestures, to which he nods, then sprawls out in your palm, props his head up, and stares up at you with the clearest "my body is yours" pose he can convey. Your anxious mind still isn't sure that he's down for this until he boops your lips with a leg, mimes jaws opening and shutting like he did for the cat, and then points at himself seductively.

"Get in my mouth, you kinky fuck." 

You're about to give the world's tiniest blowjob for science, and the dude doesn't even have any junk. You rub where it would be, and more iridescence leaks from nothingness as he squirms and arches into it. The nectar gathers like droplets of dew which pool in your palm as they coalesce. You pause once your palm is at risk of dripping and drag your tongue over him with deliberate nonchalance between lapping up the puddle like before. Once that's... put away, you continue to stimulate him as you savor the sugary stuff, but this time you close your lips around his abdomen and suck, tilting your palm to try to funnel every drop in. 

_"Mmmm…"_

He whines, so you stop, but then he signs for you to keep going, frantic. You offer an apology followed by a sheepish laugh and let him climb in your mouth, taking him further until he's gripping your snakebites and rutting against the inside of your lower lip as you suck gently and feel him up with your tongue.

He signs "good" against your cheek, switches to the backs of the piercings, and wiggles deeper, so you continue, rubbing your tongue against his underside rhythmically as you suck. He drones low, vibrating it a bit. It's an odd sensation, but more important is the pleasure thrumming through you and the skittle-flavored jizz flowing steadily down your throat, coating it. 

**> Jay'kengl'sh: Rewind and get the succ.**

He rubs at the nerve point gently again, another rush of stimulation that increases when he presses down, carefully squishing you into his soft palm and watching intently for any sign that he should stop. You leave nothing ambiguous and arch up to grind against his finger for encouragement. You don't know _why_ the Northern Lights harvest is being "liquidized," but you can't be bothered to care once he starts rubbing the tip of his tongue against you. You latch painlessly onto a few tastebuds when he tries to withdraw and check you over _again,_ eliciting a low rumble of a laugh. Then, he finally parts those heavenly lips and starts sucking you off with a pleased hum that vibrates you more the further in you go. Now you understand why he enjoys that sensation.

You come, hard, within minutes. He sucks in a slow, tender manner as you wind down, savoring your taste. When you signal that you need a break, he lets you slide back into his palm, checks you over, and then sets you between his legs, far enough away to give you a comfortable amount of space while appreciating the view as he pulls his lower garments down.

He teases his way from his fluffy happy trail to crotch, taking his time playing with the path and tracing the outline of his lower lips before spreading his legs wider. His undergarment is soaked where slick ejaculate seeped out. His breath hitches as he parts the plush folds, thumbing the point at the top. He drags some of the wetness up to spread it evenly. Then, he meets your gaze, eyes half lidded and hazy with desire. You wish you could tell him just how lovely he is. You doubt he'd accept compliments- at least, not without a struggle- but gosh, do you want to see what your praise does to him.

You rub against his inner thigh and stroke it, hoping the message is conveyed. It resembles a silken pink flower... that oozes mucous with a funny odor. Whatever; you can work with this. You fold away your proboscis to shut off your sense of smell and taste in the hopes that it'll go smoother.

**> Dirk: Get stickbugged, but in a sexy way this time.**

He inches closer until he's at a loss, trying to climb your pussy hair like he's Eugene "Flynn" Rider. You cup your fingers under him and, once he gives the go ahead, ease his lower half into your wet heat, careful and hyperobservant. You adjust to the sensation before sliding him up to your clit. He gets right in there and starts swiping his head around it. Fucking hell, he has no business being this satisfying. He's cheating by flooding you with his magic, and you welcome it. You feel so _big_ around him, god. The thought alone makes you throb harder. He starts to vibrate, low at first but gradually increasing based on your reactions. Heat pools in your gut and builds up until you can't take it anymore and press his grooved abdomen down to rub in circles. You cry in pleasure, squeezing and pulling him in deeper as you come. He squirms, then begins to rut into your walls, jizzing more. It just keeps coming as he thrusts, still vibrating. You moan low and slide him against your ridges after he peaks. He fits just right, and when he moves, it's electrifying. He holds onto your finger as you fuck yourself with his assistance, grinding against your fingertip in a less desperate manner than before. 

"Fuck, you feel so _good_ in there…"

You've lost track of how many times the two of you came when you're finally spent. You leave him in there for a couple minutes as you catch your breath, soft clenches pulsating around him. He strokes your finger and rests his head on it, body throbbing like a heartbeat from the exertion. The magic filled you to the brim, and now your lower abdomen glows with a delicious sensation. You rub it with your free hand and accidentally squeeze some out, sliding him forward a bit. He makes a startled noise, so you pull him up and cradle him in your palm. He's covered in iridescence and normal jizz up to his thorax. 

"Sorry," you laugh, still kind of panting. He wipes a speck off an antenna and flops down in a comical manner, nuzzling your clean skin. You pet him for a little while longer before pulling your clothes over your bits and smuggling him up the flights of stairs to your bathroom sink to clean up properly. He's familiar with human hygienic products by now and scrubs himself until he's spotless when you bring him under the warm, gentle tap and dispense foaming soap that smells like jasmine. You rinse him again once he signals that he's done, and then you let him shake off before plopping him onto an unused, fluffy hand towel. He waits there while you get your second shower of the day. 

Your pussy is still pumped full of him, and you'd prefer to keep it that way. You thumb the lower curve of your belly, appreciating the swirling, sparkling colors beneath your tan skin. Now that your hoodie's off, you notice that it's beginning to span your digestive system as well. You wipe the fog off the mirror to confirm your mortifying hunch: your whole damn throat is lit up. 

"That's, like, at least twenty times your size. Holy fuck."

…

You take a selfie, then drink some water from the faucet and exhale in relief over seeing it start to go down and fade. Just have to keep your distance from Rox for the time being, unless you want to get creative like a teenager covering up hickies. Thank any benevolent entity for not letting you run into her. Also for your man's retractable spikes, because you shudder to think about making it work otherwise.

You bring him to your room, check everywhere for cats including under the bed, and then set him on your pillow while you dry off. He looks around in tired awe. 

You don't take long to do your hair this time, too high on the pleasure that comes with sex and food to obsess. You lock the door (just in case one of the gremlins gets crafty) before joining him atop the luxury bedding, assnaked but comfortably warm for some reason. He climbs up to rest on your tummy, and you place a hand loosely over him with a content sigh. 

You tasted the rainbow, and your entire hierarchy of needs was fulfilled in less than eight hours. Fucking incredible.

**> Jay'kengl'sh: Thrive.**

Oh, you posilutely are. You've peaked, both literally and metaphorically. This is the ideal life, and you may just get away with living it. The energy still hangs around you like an invisible field, but it's much less like the misting cloud it was prior to your, er, cultural exchange. You feel light as a feather again, which makes sense considering the amount you unloaded. He seems to be enjoying it quite a lot. The pretty colors are gradually seeping through to the rest of his body, evening out in swirls. It's an entrancing view from where you're nestled in the tuft of soft hair below his chest. His pulse thrums against you, intense but soothing like the rest of him. He's proven to be safe, stable surroundings, and you consider yourself... snug as a bug in a rug in his presence, really. Heh. 

You trace the contours of his abs, draw little patterns, and pet his tummy hair dreamily. It's just as silky and nice-smelling as the fluff atop his head. He probably bathes in spring floral essence. His breath has a faint, pleasant mint and hazelnut scent, which you suspect isn't inherent to him either, since it was a lot stronger earlier and the latter aroma had filled the food quarters. 

All in all, he's quite the pleasant sensory experience. If this is his norm, you would like to stay by his side forever, thanks. Hopefully, he's on the same page. 

**> Dirk: Are you? **

_Hmmmmnnghm._

You can't be expected to report on anything in this state, other than "head empty, stomach full, heart happy." Check back later. 

**> Be Jay'kengl'sh again.**

He's decided to spring an impromptu massage on you, simple but appreciated. You let both pairs of shells and wings spread out so that he can get at the underneath, and he does so carefully. His thumb feels _amazing._ It kneads your whole body at once in slow circles with just enough pressure, encompassing you in soft warmth from both sides. Like him, it's heavenly. You squirm in bliss every now and then and unintentionally leak a little more iridescence, which ends up as a massage oil of sorts, worked into his skin. He keeps making those sexy noises with his deep voice, muscles shifting under you sporadically. It's gratifying to know how good you can make him feel, given your comparative tininess. Maybe he'll be amenable to you setting up shop as an emotional support slash pocket pal at the least? ... A gent can dream. You'd for certain fall asleep to this if you weren't already well-rested thanks to him. Instead, you just lay there and enjoy being played with.

**> Passively contemplate vore.**

His organs make funny sounds as they try to process your magic and end up absorbing it, rumbling and glorping palpably every now and again. You didn't think you could adopt stranger fetishes than you already have, but here you are. He's hexed your nonexistent genitalia. 

You imagine what it'd be like to be that deep inside of him, how all-encompassing his presence would be. How secure you'd feel in his core. You don't need oxygen and you've got a sturdy exoskeleton, so as long as he didn't use his chompers, you'd be fine. If you weren't so damn smitten, you'd be concerned about the way your survival instincts seem to clock out around him now and even invert themselves... It's a lot of trust to put in one person, but he's more than earned it. 

Two mental images dawn out of nowhere, just as vorny and intimate. In them, he swallows you and slides you all the way into his pussy, holding you there in an organ meant for protection with a much calmer environment. As… lovely as both sound, the thoughts came from him. You'd be less certain if you knew that was possible beforehand and he didn't bring his other hand to rub at the spot absentmindedly afterwards, breath hitching at his heightened sensitivity. 

… Maybe he didn't realize he was broadcasting his desires since you didn't realize he was picking up on yours. He'd expressed earlier that he thought he was having side effects akin to those of lotus bonding rituals, so that would make sense. You'd never connected with anyone in that matter- you weren't even comfortable with the notion of the less intimate communal one, hence assigning yourself an outsider role in society. 

You welcome it with him, though. 

He let up on the massage while he was preoccupied, so you wiggle out, fold up your wings again, and scoot lower to stroke the area. Realization that you understand seems to dawn upon him. He tenses, then shivers, the pulse below his navel spiking. You hug the glowing space as it jostles you, and he inhales sharply, stifling a whine when you nuzzle it. You assume your energy and rebounding thoughts are amplifying the experience, so you continue lavishing him in affection. His waves of arousal build, overwhelming you. You're bombarded with vivid, detailed imagery for both and sensations so realistic that you aren't sure if he managed to astral vore you somehow. 

He's... really into this. You can't believe you're raring to go _again,_ but here you are. You offer a hesitant gesture, to which he gives the go-ahead in a nonverbal plea. You ease yourself down just enough to rub your abdomen against his clit until he peaks, gripping the bedding, and then he's cupping you in place to get up clumsily and wash away the rainbow ejaculate between his legs before it can spill over. Both of your cleanups take mere seconds this time.

He pulls on adornments as you dry off, then pets your antennas affectionately with a fingertip. You make a grabby gesture with your front arms until he scoops you up and brings you to his face for another kiss. Yeah, definitely minty, but you can taste your sugary sweetness more than the rest. It's a chaste but tender smooch, and then you boop snoots.

You doubt there's a better sight in all the realms than his smile- you can't resist hugging it, too. He laughs softly through his nose before helping you into the pocket above his heart. You suspect he donned it for that purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/5qVmQ5pkink
> 
> this song cursed my dick


	7. Chapter 7

**> That's enough crime for one day. **

Maybe even a lifetime. 

Despite being in the afterglow and still very much glowing, he apparently intends to go about the rest of his daily routine. You accompany him upon invitation to some sort of special room down the hall, large and mostly empty. The one wall is covered in mirror glass. He cracks an awkward smirk at you before coaxing you onto a ginormous, textured cube. He taps his phone a couple times, and then a song starts playing from all directions at once, just like in the motion picture room. He plops his phone and large vial of water next to you, backs away, and does some stretches, so you limber up in solidarity. 

Then, he knocks your figurative socks off. 

He starts moving his body in ways you never thought possible for his species. You watch in awe as he contorts himself and proceeds to grip bars, railings, and a pole to hoist himself against gravity and maneuver with ease. Afterwards, he propels his body into the air, does a twist and flip before landing, and then starts climbing the walls and balancing on shit between jumping off them. He's managed to utilize even completely flat, vertical surfaces despite lacking claws. It puts all your earlier stunts to shame, but the two of you aren't comparable, so when he takes a breather to dab away sweat and hydrate you do some exercise of your own. It's fun, really! You haven't got a tiny gym or anything else for that matter, but you make do. The experience is invigorating and you've always loved to sync your movements to music, so you get your groove on. 

Eventually, he does more stretches to limber up and cool down. You scuttle up his back while he's bent over and mimic his pose, which he finds amusing. He points his phone at the mirror wall from that position, and it makes a click like it did several times before while reflecting the scene. 

Once he's done, he sets you back down, says some jibberish, and gestures again for you to stay there. You nod, considering the room is free of cats and hyper human roommates. He returns several minutes later with a container of colorful, fun looking objects. Many are bricks- he teaches you how to connect them to each other, but you don't exactly have to gusto to make them click given you weigh less than an ounce, so he helps by attaching each piece you arrange while he builds his own architecture. In time, the two of you have constructed an epic city prime for exploration. He sets up various miniature fake creatures and foliage to make it more realistic. There's a bright pink wheeled vehicle that he fiddles with a contraption for and then demonstrates how to steer it with the controls, but again, they require human size and strength, so you just hop in and give the "go" gesture. He looks at you like you sprouted a seventh limb but concedes, maneuvering it painstakingly slowly around the room. You put your two arms not gripping the steering wheel up in the air when he goes faster. He does loops and figure eights and even small ramps. You scream in delight from the thrill, but thankfully, he interprets it the right way instead of stopping and panicking. 

Next, he sets up a narrow, flexible track that goes above and through the city. He puts a very tiny vehicle on the top of it, and you watch it pick up speed. It does a loopty-loop at the end and then just drops onto the ground. You scurry up to the beginning, fold your limbs, and use it as a slide despite his objection. You go a lot faster than the vehicle, and the loop launches you into the air. You flap your wings in a disoriented panic, but his hands are there to cushion your fall before you can smack into the wall. He gives you an "I warned you" expression, so you strive to be as adorable as possible while conveying your gratitude. 

He rearranges the track so that it's not a concussion road anymore and presents you with a wheeled board almost as long as you. He has his own and demonstrates how to do cool kicks and flips with two of his fingers. You bring yours back to the start of the now-flatter track, position yourself carefully, and push off. 

It goes about as well as that date with the blue spider lady. Before he can dismantle the loop to prevent recurrences, you hurry to the top, gesture something along the lines of "I've got this; step aside," and adjust your posture to balance the velocity. It's nerve-wracking, for sure, but you manage to not be flung off or run over this time and even make it past the loop by fluttering your shells vigorously upside-down. He gives an impressed thumbs-up when you come out on the other side, which you've learned means something along the lines of "Nice job."

You spend the remainder of the board time just noodling around and practicing stunts with him. He lays on his mat so that he doesn't have to stoop or kneel, which makes it easier to interact with him both physically and minus the dizzy factor. You even wheel under arches and around obstacles he makes with his hands. He plops you on his forearm at one point to use it as a ramp and seems amused at the way you coast down it. 

Next, he breaks out action figures and lets you play hero to the city, clobbering ne'er-do-wells and rescuing innocents while he mans the props and films you with his phone. He comes up with intricate plots and even gives you action music, making sound effects with each blow you land. 

You then play a few rounds of hide and seek, because you're a mature adult who lost interest in all these activities and games a decade prior. This is tactical reflex sharpening, and… Oh, who are you kidding? It's a blast! 

**> Dirk: Admit your motivations.**

Enrichment. Skills training. A bonding experience. Whatever lets you justify it to yourself.

You regret ever thinking you were too old for this shit. Holy balls, are you glad she kept her childhood toys in the hopes of adopting someday… At least, that's _her_ excuse. What she gets up to is none of your damn business, intriguing as the wizard figurines and shirtless hunks are. You really don't care if she roleplays pornos in her freetime. 

He's winding down and you're admittedly beat, so you decide to call it a day. He agrees. You're still sparkling like a Pride edition of Edward Cullen, but now it's evenly distributed, which prevents you from saying "goodnight" to Rox in person. You call downstairs out of view, and she reciprocates, then goes back to chatting up friends loud enough to hear down the hall, occasionally snort-laughing and slapping the table. You smile to yourself. God, you love her. 

You grab your pillow and blanket and carry him to the other end of the hall, pull the ceiling hatch down, and unfold the carpeted loft ladder. He scales the railing once you insist he goes first out of both politeness and another flare-up of your irrational fear of smothering him in ass. He reaches the top and makes a hushed peep of awe at the sight. 

You join him and close the hatch to keep the cats at bay. You consider turning on the nightlight, but the snow and moon are illuminating the room pretty well, along with you looking like a walking rave. Your colors even dance across the walls from what little skin is exposed, so you yank your sweaty shirt off to let the boys breathe. Ok, yeah, you're bright enough that you could read a book with ease like this. 

He's torn between ogling you, the room, and the stars. The sky cleared up an hour or two ago, and the glass dome of the observatory holds little snow. Being so far from civilization reduces the light pollution enough to view thousands of stars, ranging in size, spacing, and hue against a backdrop of blues and purples interspersed with a few grey tufts of clouds sailing by overhead and framed with swaying pines. 

It blew your goddamn mind the first time she dragged you up here to have a slumber party, as did every subsequent time. She taught you the mythos of the constellations and improvised her own, like catgirls and dongs. You love it when she infodumps about random astrophysics shit and spams you with NASA articles. She's a polymath of the sciences but still eats up clickbait and amateur stuff- you two marathoned the entire Bill Nye series on the projector screen she uses to kick your ass at "bideo gaymes," and her go-to lab songs include 8-bit covers as well as the _Here Comes Science_ album. 

Anyway, she showed you how to use the telescope to identify planets and their moons, but he's tuckered out so you'll save attempting that for another night. You set up a pillow nest and plop yours on top before getting cozy under your blanket. He hops over and snuggles up against the crook of your neck with a content trill, nestled in your unstyled hair. It doesn't take long for sleep to reclaim you both.


End file.
